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1066 AD, England
It technically counted as thwarting, dragging the enemy away from a particularly gory and extensive battle. There was no other reason for Crowley to be caught in the midst of it, if he wasn’t in the middle of delicately persuading everyone to hate everyone else a little more.
There was certainly no other reason to lead him away, certainly not because Aziraphale was perhaps a little worried about the fate of his enemy. And maybe if he was, he was simply looking out for him, saving him from a mountain of paperwork and the resulting migraine. Aziraphale told himself this, as he tugged Crowley closer.
“Of all the ignorant, injudicious things, Crowley—“
“Aziraphale—“
“Throwing yourself in the middle of battle— with only a helmet, mind you — and to what? Convince one gentleman to slaughter another, over and over, until everyone is dead?”
“No—“
Aziraphale yanked Crowley into a thicket of trees, turning to face him.
“And don’t even get me started on what could’ve happened to you. All those swords, and spears, and arrows, I know that you resent the paperwork.” Aziraphale said.
Crowley held a finger up while he caught his breath. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
“Well?”
“I was bored, if you really wanna know,” Crowley said, eventually.
“So you started a battle?”
“No, that was all—“ Crowley gestured vaguely to the skirmish beyond the bushes. “human. Just— joined in. For fun,” he said. “Wanted to practice.”
“I’m having a rather hard time believing you,” Aziraphale said.
“Fine, believe whatever you want. You thwarted my wiles, or whatever your lot says these days,” Crowley said. “I think I’m gonna have a good lie-down after all this.”
Aziraphale turned his attention to a rather loud clashing of swords outside the safety of the trees.
“It’s best we keep moving, lest they mistake us for belonging to that blasted William,” He said.
Aziraphale tugged on Crowley’s wrist, who followed begrudgingly, but not without vocal protests. They made it out of the thicket and halfway up the hill before Crowley suddenly wrenched his wrist out of Aziraphale’s grip and stopped. Aziraphale turned to face him.
“Something’s wrong,” Crowley said.
Something was certainly wrong, the demon’s skin had gone white, glistening with sweat, and he was grabbing at his right side, just below his rib cage. Aziraphale could see his eyes through the opening in his helmet, and they were blown wide with what appeared to be fear.
“What—“ was all Aziraphale said before Crowley collapsed.
Aziraphale managed to catch him under the arms, and he slowly lowered him to the grass. Crowley was gasping, chest heaving with the effort, so Aziraphale gently removed his helmet, heart racing. His hands hovered, eyes scanning over Crowley’s body, unsure of what exactly to do. The demon was still grasping desperately at his side, so Aziraphale concluded dumbly that the problem must lie there.
“Can you move your hands for me?” He said, as gently and confidently as he could.
Crowley failed to oblige, shaking his head. “Fuckin’… hurts,” he managed, through gritted teeth.
Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “I’m terribly sorry, but I need to see it,” he said.
Aziraphale took Crowley’s wrists and gently pried them off. Rather than fuss about trying to wrestle gambeson off, he simply miracled it away, (it popped back into existence neatly folded and puncture-free in Crowley’s dwelling) worrying less about Crowley’s pride and more about his life. The demon didn’t seem to care, either way.
Blood was smeared along the demon’s right side, the source of it was a jagged stab wound, skin mangled and dyed red around the edges, deep enough to be concerning, and Aziraphale certainly was.
“See, look at what you’ve done,” He said, ignoring the obvious wobble in his voice. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself stabbed.”
Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief out of his robes and placed it into Crowley’s icy hands.
“Take that and hold pressure, just like what you were doing.”
He guided the demon’s hands back over the wound and helped him with the task at hand.
“Tsk, how did this even happen?” Aziraphale asked, talking for the sake of talking. “You were fine one minute, and the next thing I know, you’ve started crumpling to the ground in pain. Quite a scare, if I do say so myself.”
Crowley made a sound that could’ve been a whine if it wasn’t coming from a demon, and Aziraphale’s heart broke. Crowley weakly kicked a leg, trying to do anything to mitigate the agony.
“Dear Ssssatan, this hurts.” Crowley hissed, a tear in the middle of rolling down his temple.
Aziraphale wiped away the tear with his free thumb, shushing. “I can’t imagine it would feel any good, you poor thing.”
Crowley’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t need your pity,” he spat.
The demon was trembling quite violently, brows furrowed, and lip curled in a wince. He was breathing far too fast for his own good, if not hyperventilating entirely. Blood was soaking through the handkerchief, through both Crowley and Aziraphale’s fingers, warm, scarlet red, and entirely too quickly.
“Um,” Aziraphale said, trying hard not to stare at the red fluid, “I'm going to try and heal you, okay?”
Crowley took a minute to process his words, and he eventually nodded. However, his eyes widened, as he came to a sudden, important realization.
“Wait—“
But Aziraphale already started, conjuring divine magick down from the heavens to heal the demon. To heal the demon.
Crowley screamed.
Aziraphale stopped immediately, frozen, eyes wide. He came back to his senses after a few seconds and clamped a hand over Crowley’s mouth, worried that they might be heard.
Of course holy miracles wouldn’t work on a demon, how could he be so stupid?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Crowley!” Aziraphale said.
If Crowley hadn’t been hyperventilating before he certainly was now. His eyes were wide, chest heaving as he failed to draw in a satisfying breath. Aziraphale released his hand from the demon’s mouth to hopefully let him breathe easier.
As soon as Aziraphale’s hand left, Crowley rolled onto his side and retched noisily, once, twice, before lurching forward and vomiting on the grass.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, awkwardly rubbing the demon’s arm.
Crowley rolled back onto his back when he was done, somehow looking more disheveled than he previously was. Aziraphale smoothed his hair down and away from his forehead, running his fingers through the long locks in a, hopefully, soothing manner.
“I’m sorry, Crowley, I just thought— I don’t— I supposed it might work,” Aziraphale said solemnly. “I was obviously foolish.”
“…Humans,” Crowley mumbled.
“Sorry?”
“Do it like the humans,” he gasped, desperately. “Heal me.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot upwards. He was a practitioner of miracles, although he had witnessed his fair share of human healing practices. The other option would be to let Crowley die, and while that’s what he ought to have done, he felt a little sick from simply thinking about it. The wait time for new bodies wasn’t necessarily high, and discorporating wasn’t as much of a nuisance as he’d heard from other angels, but it was still nice to try and prevent it entirely. He was doing Crowley a favor, nothing more, nothing less.
“Alright, I’ll—“ Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “I’ll try my best.”
He couldn’t do much for Crowley in terms of healing miracles, but he could conjure a few items to help. Little miracles, nothing to draw any attention.
A bottle of wine for nerves, cleaning, and pain relief, a needle and thread, cotton wraps, and a bowl of warm water all appeared with a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, every item laid out on a nice marble slab. Maybe the marble slab was a little too much, but Aziraphale was nervous.
Aziraphale popped the cork out of the wine bottle and took a healthy swig. He passed it to Crowley, who chugged nearly half the bottle before handing it back. Crowley’s breaths were growing more and more ragged and starting to labor, and Aziraphale realized with a cold pang that he’d have to hurry. He positioned the neck of the wine bottle over the stab wound, careful not to accidentally spill any. Crowley’s hands were still holding the handkerchief to the site, even though it was thoroughly soaked in blood.
“Can you move your hands, please?” Aziraphale said.
Crowley did as told, discarding the handkerchief carelessly onto the grass. Aziraphale produced another one from his robes.
“Here, now, put this one in your mouth and hold my hand. Squeeze and bite, don’t scream,” Aziraphale said.
“Huh?” Crowley said.
“When I pour this wine over your wound, it will hurt Crowley. I know that it’s not your department to do so, but trust me.”
Crowley nodded hesitantly, taking the cloth and stuffing it between his teeth. He took Aziraphale’s hand into his own and closed his eyes.
“Alright,” Aziraphale said. “Take a deep breath in, and—“
Aziraphale poured a generous amount of wine onto the wound. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand so hard, he felt several pops. His other hand pounded at the grass in agony, face pinched tight. He inhaled and half-groaned, half-sobbed around the handkerchief.
“I’m sorry, I know it hurts, I know,” Aziraphale soothed.
Aziraphale handed the bottle back to Crowley, who took the cloth out of his mouth and chugged the rest desperately, some of the alcohol escaping the corners of his mouth. Another bottle appeared on the marble slab in the place of the first one. The empty one disappeared from Crowley’s hand and reappeared in a trash bin, miles away. Aziraphale popped the cork from the new bottle and took a swig. He placed it back on the marble and picked up the needle and thread.
Crowley was fading fast, head lolled to the side, serpent eyes glassy and staring at nothing. He wasn’t hyperventilating, but he wasn’t exactly breathing normally either.
“Crowley, I need you to stay with me, please,” Aziraphale said.
“‘M gonna pass out.”
“I would prefer that you didn’t, dear boy.”
“‘M sorry,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line, successfully threading the needle after his second attempt.
“Whatever for?” He said.
“Bein’ ‘n idiot,” Crowley said. “Gettin’ stabbed.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for apologies later. Right now I need you to focus on staying alive,” Aziraphale said.
“Angel,” Crowley said, voice cracking, “just le’me go.”
Aziraphale splashed some of the wine on the needle and smeared some more of the liquid over his hands.
“I will not, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking. “I will not stand by and watch you die from such a foolish decision.”
Aziraphale was only vaguely aware of a tear escaping his eye and rolling down his face. Crowley’s breaths were becoming fewer and further between, raspy, painful. He brought a bloodstained hand up and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, smearing the blood onto his pale skin.
“You’re beautiful…” Crowley whispered, in a state of drunkenness and delirium, eyes drifting closed.
Aziraphale was stunned, and more notably, devastated. He stared at the demon, who was quickly floating away to the oblivion of unconsciousness. Another tear slipped down his cheek. Angels didn’t cry over demons.
Crowley passed out a few seconds later, more or less for the better. It was a lot easier to perform surgery on an insensate patient. Aziraphale started suturing, starting from muscle and working his way all the way up to the topmost skin layer. He only took breaks to wash away the blood.
Crowley stayed alive, and it wasn’t a heavenly miracle, but a miracle of Aziraphale. His willpower kept the demon alive, pulse even but feathery, breathing steadily but labored.
And Crowley dreamt nice dreams, of things he called gorgeous. Of the Pillars of Creation, and blue giant stars, of Rigel and Naos, and many like them. Of various other nebulae, of Aziraphale.
✧✧✧
Crowley woke up, which was expected. However, what wasn’t expected, was the fact he woke up on Earth, in an unfamiliar bed, the warmest he’d been in a good long while.
A sharp pain in his side caused him to lie still and think, to try and remember. Remember getting stabbed.
It was bound to happen, in a sea of sharp metal sticks specially designed to stab. A little miracle to convince everyone, or more specifically their weapons, that he wasn’t worth the time it took to kill, and that that guy over there looked far more worthy of a sword through his sternum, was all he needed to prevent this situation entirely. But, where was the fun in that?
Crowley felt hungover. Specifically the kind of hungover you got after bad decisions with red wine. He had drunk enough various alcohols in the past few centuries to notice the difference.
He needed to know where he was. Crowley sat up far too quickly, resulting in a spinning head, and tried to focus on his surroundings. He managed to pick up a scent, strong, sweet, horribly familiar. He had known that particular scent since… The Garden. Aziraphale.
The comforter smelled the most like him. He was in the angel’s house, in his bed. The buzz in his ears grew louder as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths before attempting to stand up.
Crowley’s knees buckled immediately and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor with a yelp. A white head of hair peeked around the corner, concerned.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, rushing to Crowley’s side. “What on Earth are you doing? Trying to walk around after being stabbed, here—“
Aziraphale gently took Crowley’s arm and helped him back on the bed. The ordeal winded Crowley and he winced, trying to steady his breathing.
“Where… am I?” He eventually said.
“Erm…” Aziraphale said, fidgeting with his hands, “you’re somewhere safe, that’s all that matters.”
“You brought me to your house,” Crowley said.
“Ah, yes. Indeed,” Aziraphale said. “How did you know? That this is um, my house.”
“Smells like you,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale blushed, Crowley pretended not to notice, for both of their sake. The angel opened his mouth to say something, but he decided against it and closed it, simply nodding.
“I suppose I owe you for this one,” Crowley said, placing a careful hand over his bandages.
He was still shirtless, he mused to himself. Goosebumps started appearing on his arms. It was humid and warm outside, but Crowley felt entirely too cold.
“It was simply a favor,” Aziraphale said, “discorporating is a… rather dreadful experience.”
“You said “die”,” Crowley said, meeting the angel’s eyes.
“Pardon?”
“You said you wouldn’t stand by and watch me die,” Crowley said. “Not discorporate.”
Aziraphale looked away. “I, uh, suppose I did,” he said. “Awful thing, watching someone bleed out.”
Crowley felt a pang of sorrow. He never meant for Aziraphale to find him, God forbid the angel save him from discorporation. Crowley hardly remembered the last few minutes of consciousness, but he could clearly reminisce the look on Aziraphale’s face, the tears running down his cheeks. Tears of an angel, cried for a demon.
Another thing he couldn’t bear to remember, but he could never forget, was his blood, soiling Aziraphale’s soft, perfect hands.
Hands that he would’ve loved to feel on him, in better circumstances.
Now that was a dangerous thought.
Crowley swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking.
“You should lie down, get some rest,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley shivered. Curling up under Aziraphale’s comforter sounded absolutely blissful, but he couldn’t be caught, not by anyone, certainly not by hell, not in an angel’s dwelling.
“Don’t need rest,” Crowley said.
“I’m sure you don’t need it, but you’ve been stabbed, dear boy! Your corporation absolutely needs it,” Aziraphale said. “And don’t worry, They won’t find you here.”
Aziraphale tapped the air, and to Crowley’s surprise, the air wobbled and shimmered gold.
“You put a protection miracle on your house?” Crowley said, raising a brow.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale said.
“Upstairs’ll be wondering,” Crowley said. “Why there’s a big, steady miracle ‘round your home.”
“It’s not—“
“It’s suspicious.”
“Please, Crowley, don’t worry about it. I can handle it, I can handle Them,” Aziraphale said. “Just rest.”
Tears stung at Crowley’s eyes. He wasn’t meant to cry, demons didn’t cry, and they certainly didn’t cry around angels. Angels were meant to cry, they were beings of empathy, after all.
Crowley sniffled and turned his head, refusing to fall apart from some idiotic reaction to being cared for.
“You did all this,” Crowley said, forcing his voice not to waver, “this— saving me from discorporation, and then hiding me in your home, for what?”
Aziraphale looked mildly shocked, as if he hardly knew the answer himself.
“Well, I suppose, technically, that I’m… thwarting you. Keeping you here so that you don’t run about and spread mischief in these vulnerable times,” Aziraphale said.
“Ah,” Crowley said, “of course.”
“But…” Aziraphale said, fidgeting with his hands, ”you’re doing the same thing to me. Thwarting, that is. I could be out there, spreading divine relief and blessings to the victims of the battle, but instead I’m… taking care of you.”
“Oh, bless me for getting stabbed, you don’t have to do this, angel,” Crowley said.
“You see, the thing is I— I want to,” Aziraphale said. “I want to take care of you, Crowley.”
Crowley turned his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, and he saw kindness and genuine compassion in them. He’d seen that look before, directed to sick and wounded humans, but never so clearly to him.
A burning behind his eyes and in his throat told Crowley that he was starting to break down. Tears rolled off his cheeks before he could tell them to stop, before he could stitch himself together so tightly that he would never fall apart, and tell himself to stay strong, to not cry in front of Aziraphale.
It was too late for all of that. Crowley choked back a sob, shoulders trembling with the effort. He might’ve told the angel that he didn’t need to rest, but he was exhausted, and in far more pain than he cared to be in ever again. Crowley wrapped his arms around himself. This sucked.
Crowley fell apart, as delicately as glass, in the presence of his angel.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, carefully sitting on the bed next to him.
“I'm sorry,” Crowley weeped.
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“You weren’t supposed to be here, you weren’t meant to be so nice to me.”
Aziraphale shushed softly. “Nonsense. I’m an angel of the Lord, it is my job to be kind.”
“Not to me.”
“Even to you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Especially to you, always to you.”
Crowley sobbed. He clung tightly to himself as if he could lose his own body, and in fact, he nearly did. Aziraphale was an angel and was quite literally made to be compassionate, but Crowley could never fathom the fact that his kindness could even glance his way; could glance a demon’s way. Aziraphale did all that, he saved him, stitched his wound, protected him out of a genuine love, disguised as simple, divine empathy.
“Can I hug you?” Aziraphale said, voice so low and gentle, it was almost poisonous.
Crowley nodded. He unwinded from himself, letting Aziraphale scoot over and embrace him. His hands hovered over Aziraphale’s back for a few seconds before he returned the gesture, gripping tightly at the angel’s robes.
They sat like that for a while, an angel and a demon, holding each other as if they were the only things in the world.
Crowley quickly fell back asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted. Aziraphale stayed in bed with him for the first night, and kept watch the rest of the time.
Crowley awoke a few days later with a warm feeling that he would be alright.
And that was the first time in a while that he was absolutely truthful to himself.